


The Scientific Method

by mintwitch



Series: The Naughty Bits [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, For Science!, Het, Het and Slash, M/M, Porn, Porn With Plot, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 04:00:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/426709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mintwitch/pseuds/mintwitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is not gay. Really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Scientific Method

 

"Does it bother you?"

John looked up from his paper. "Does what bother me?"

Sherlock waved an exasperated semaphore. "What she said. That I 'get off on it.'"

Oh. "Oh." John looked back down, scanned a few lines, thinking. John was aware that he had a very strong sense of right and wrong, and little interest in pursuing questions of moral ambiguity. That made him a bit... amoral, in an odd sense. But he was comfortable with that. "No. I think it's perfectly natural."

Silence boomed, filling the room. John lifted his head to see what a Sherlock that had stopped breathing looked like. Vaguely horrified. 

John shrugged, explaining, "If you are good at something, it seems reasonable that you should enjoy doing that thing. And vice versa—if you like doing something, you'd probably do it enough to get good at it. If whatever-it-is also benefits other people, or society, well, that's, that's a very fine thing."

Sherlock levered his torso up, and let his legs slide down the wall, until he'd done a 180 and was sitting on the sofa right-side-up, like a normal person. 

"You astonish me, John," he breathed. "How delightfully flexible."

"As a reed in the wind. A soldier does much the some task as a doctor, just on a different scale. Macro versus micro, you might say."

"Well, it's an argument," conceded Sherlock. "But most people are horrified by actual logic."

"Good thing that you're a genius, and can appreciate my depths."

"Oh, I do, John," Sherlock said, laying down on the sofa, and throwing an arm over his face. "Very much so."

*

Sherlock took John to a show, possibly to make up for the Chinese Circus from Hell episode. Or, maybe there were homicidal maniacs lurking backstage, and Sherlock would once more leap onto the stage in a feat of Victorian derring-do. Although, this show featured a troupe of dancers, very briefly wearing a variety of costumes, which were strategically removed behind feathers, fans, feathered fans, balloons, and beach umbrellas.

The theme seemed to be vaguely French. A woman on a tricyle, wearing tight black pants and a red beret, pedaled across the stage between acts, holding various signs. In French, of course. John's French was extremely rusty. Had, in fact, been rusty when he was in school, sitting in French class. John was pots at languages.

Two or three acts in, Sherlock huffed a genuine laugh at one of the signs, and John turned to look at him, curious. Sherlock caught it and smirked. "Quite witty, actually."

"What's it say?" John asked, leaning closer.

Sherlock didn't ask the usual, fake questions, "oh, you don't speak French?" Sherlock was defensively condescending, not offensively. Unfortunately, someone as sensitive as Sherlock saw offense coming from a long way off. Seen from his own point of view, Sherlock was a model of restraint. 

Sherlock slid his arm across the back of the banquette, behind John's shoulders and whispered the translation into his ear, explaining, "it's a play on an old poem, about a man whose ex-mistress goes into a wig shop." It was funny, so John laughed quietly, appreciatively. Sherlock pulled back a bit and gave him a shy look, and spent the rest of the show as a human subtitle machine—not just translating the entr'actes, but also dropping surprisingly relevant and interesting tidbits about the history of cabaret, pantomime, and burlesque, his breathe soft and warm against John's ear.

It was a nice time. The dancers were extremely fit, of course, both the male and female. Yes, a nice time, indeed.

After the encore, Sherlock grabbed his wrist and dragged John down the tiers, around to the short stairs leading backstage.

"Are we allowed back here?" John asked the air, pointlessly. The narrow hall smelled like sweat and dust and mildew. Performers and crew rushed around, the dancers obvious by their make-up and various states of undress.

Sherlock tapped on the wall next to a tiny, door-less closet of a room, stuffed with what seemed like hundreds of women, but was actually only four, reflected in mirrors on three sides. The angular blonde one, recognizable even without her tricycle, stood up with a smile.

"Sherlock!" she exclaimed, air-kissing each of his cheeks, Continental-style. She had a distinctly American accent. "I'm so glad you could make it. I nearly pissed myself when I got your text. Who's your friend?"

"My friend," Sherlock declaimed, with particular emphasis, "is John Watson."

John flushed a little, at the subtle reminder of his introduction to Seb. Sherlock had never said anything directly, but he'd been rather more pointed about their relationship since John had called himself a colleague. Not to belittle John, no, quite the opposite. Sherlock had come off as a bit of a boffin, boasting before someone who'd once tormented him, flaunting his enviable girlfriend. Or, in John's case, boyfriend. John could never tell if Sherlock was self-aware enough to recognize that about himself, and had spent many an idle hour contemplating the question. Either way, it made him sad. Probably because he was something of a loner, himself. Takes one to know one, after all.

He found his hand being shaken and then squeezed rather harder than one might expect from the woman's fine bone structure. "I'm Trixie, pleased to meet you." Despite her friendly, practised smile, Trixie was staring lasers at him. Taken with the hand-shake, John thought the combination was meant as a protective gesture, a 'hurt Sherlock and I'll peel your nuts like mandarins' sort of thing, which John appreciated. He squeezed back, and let the threat pass.

Sherlock watched the exchange with a fascinated expression. John did not look forward to the inquisition that was bound to follow, once they returned to the flat. Although, if John told him, "We were just sniffing each other's arse, it's fine," Sherlock might drop it. John filed it away: he could definitely use that.

*

Trixie was a wonderful diversion, or "rebound fuck," as she called herself. John probably shouldn't have found that as screamingly hot as he did. Trixie's vulgarity and gorgeous ass gave him a persistent--and quite gratifying--erection for the remaining three weeks of her London engagement. She would be off to Canada with the rest of the troupe before he had time to get bored or annoyed. The perfect relationship.

Sherlock seemed to agree. Trixie all but moved in to 221B for those weeks, and she and Sherlock slid past each other like friendly cats.

"So you and Trixie really are mates?" John asked one morning, after Trixie had left for rehearsal.

"Is that so hard to believe?" Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. 

"What's harder to believe is that she's practically living in the flat, and you haven't killed her, yet."

"Oh, Trixie and I have roomed together, before," Sherlock replied in an extra-silky baritone.

John choked on his tea. When he'd recovered, and could focus, Sherlock was sneering at him fondly.

"You lived with a woman? Bloody Hell, now I've heard it all. How'd that come about?"

"I was touring with the troupe, of course."

John gazed at Sherlock for an endless moment, picturing his flatmate as a male burlesque dancer. Then he got up and left the room.

Days later, when John had nearly forgotten the conversation, Sherlock said, apropos of nothing, "Really, John, I wouldn't think you'd be the type to get upset about that sort of thing."

John looked up from his paper.

"What sort of thing?"

"Male strippers."

Oh. John breathed hard; in through the nose, out through the mouth. Again. Didn't work. The blush climbed his cheeks, all the way to the tops of his ears.

He could feel Sherlock staring at him. Bastard.

"Oh. Oh, I see. Hmmm." More silence. "How interesting."

John got up and left the room.

The next few nights, John made Trixie come until the yelling descended into satiated whimpers. Then he flipped her over, so he could hold onto the tight, muscled curve of her dancer's arse while he fucked like a madman, trying not to think about words like transference and sublimation. 

He wasn't particularly proud of himself, but Trixie was appreciative, and said complimentary things about his cock, so John tried to let it go. Sherlock gave him inscrutable looks over his morning coffee, and pointedly didn't comment about the noise.

*

Closing night, Sherlock and John watched from the wings, applauding wildly when the dancers took their final bows. Sherlock had brought flowers, which he presented to Trixie with the air of someone clicking his heels and bowing, without actually performing either. Trixie invited them both to the party, after.

Surprisingly, Sherlock declared himself, "delighted to attend."

"I thought you hated parties," John whispered, as Trixie whirled away to go change.

"Show people, John! Closed societies are such rich breeding grounds for intrigue: jealousy, ambition, treachery, and betrayal." He hummed and raised his hands to his lips, eyes lidded in creamy satisfaction. "Much like the Yard, really. Delicious!"

John rolled his eyes, and followed his friend back to the Green Room.

The party was, in fact, delightful. Sherlock observed and hummed and swept dramatically to and fro. Trixie drank quite a bit and passed out on a tattered sofa. John checked her pulse and her pupils, while a young man named Nigel flirted with him.

"Trix says you're an animal in the sack."

"Um."

Sherlock swept by, "Tiger, I believe, is the usual descriptor."

Nigel eyed John speculatively. John blushed. "Both of them?"

"Both, what? Oh! No, um. I'm not actually gay. Sherlock just... says things like that. He doesn't mean it the way it sounds." At least John hoped not.

"No one said you were, love. The infinite variety of life precludes such narrow definitions!" Nigel gestured, sweeping his arm out. John ducked. "Sorry."

"Yes, well, I know that, actually. Still, not gay." John smiled, hoping this conversation would end, very soon, and checked Trixie's pulse, again.

Sherlock made another pass, coat flaring. "Doctor Watson is well acquainted with the sexual diversity of his species."

John briefly debated the relative merits of homicide as opposed to suicide. Nigel smirked.

The troupe was flying out in the wee hours, so—soon after and against his instincts—John left alone, if one didn't count Sherlock. Sherlock, of course, refused to be discounted.

"It's just as well," the detective mused, on the ride back to the flat.

"What?" John wasn't really paying attention, just making encouraging noises in Sherlock's general direction. Trixie had been a marvelous shag, but they hadn't had much to talk about. Still, he would miss getting off on a regular basis. Although, to be honest, he was a little old for such frequent athletics. 

"Do pay attention, John." Sherlock huffed, impatiently. "That you didn't bring young Nigel home."

"Why would I do that?" Attention achieved.

"The man was obviously attracted to you, and quite flexible. He would be an enthusiastic and satisfying sexual partner; however, I deduce that he's had intercourse with all of the other cast members and nearly a third of the ancillary corps, so there is a significant risk of exposure to infections of an intimate nature. Thus, it's just as well." Sherlock presented this conclusion as if he'd located the Sancy diamond and John was the Queen. He could practically see the driver's ears grow, quivering with interest.

"You are daft. A total nutter."

"Irrelevant."

"Completely relevant."

"Absurd."

"Nutter. Insane. Batty. Off your rocker. Demented and deranged."

"Pay the man, John," Sherlock ordered, and flounced out of the cab. He disappeared into the building while John was still reaching for his wallet, and muttering to himself.

"I'm not gay," John told the cabbie.

"Whatever you say, guv," the driver responded. "There's all kinds of people 'round here. Mrs Turner's got married ones."

There was no help for it, it would have to be suicide. Otherwise, he'd end up killing half of London.

*

Another day, no locum work. John spent the morning updating his blog, while Sherlock distilled the caffeine from assorted energy drinks. The happy cooing noises from the kitchen reminded him of pigeons, a sound he'd always found strangely soothing.

He was writing up the case of The Beryl Chess Set, but having trouble with the conclusion. They had sworn not to reveal the poor girl's unhappy secret, but without it, the story made no sense. The cursor blinked at him maliciously.

"Are you gay?" It was doubtful that Sherlock heard him. If he did, he probably thought John was talking to the skull. "We should name him. Yorick? No, too obvious. Bob?"

"Derivative, John. Besides, he already has a name." The voice made him jump, unexpectedly just over his shoulder. He should put a bell on the man, but Sherlock would just declare it cliched and unimaginative. Then John would end up feeling vaguely offended, huff off to the Starbucks, where he would flirt unsuccessfully with the barista, and end the day rejected, depressed, and sexually frustrated. Altogether, not worth saying.

"Do you even know what I'm talking about?"

"Of course. His name is Trevor and I'm inscrutable."

"I don't think 'inscrutable' counts as an orientation."

"Dull." Sherlock was already dismissing the conversation as beneath his notice.

"Well, do you want to have sex, then?" John wasn't sure when the editing function of his brain had gone offline. He stared hard at the screen and tried to pretend he couldn't hear the profound silence emanating from his flatmate.

"In general?" Sherlock asked, with careful precision, "or specifically?"

"Both?" He heard his own voice as if from a far distance, like the bottom of a chasm or the depths of humiliation.

"Rarely. And. Hm. Perhaps. But, John," he twisted around to look at Sherlock, needing to see his expression. If John was going to die, he would do it like a man, meeting his fate head-on. "You're not gay."

"Well. I'm beginning to wonder. I seem to be outvoted."

"Am I to understand that you wish to perform an experiment, with myself as the, er, independent variable?" His face was a study in contradictions. Curious, pleased, startled, perhaps vaguely repulsed. Sherlock's nostrils flared. John found it enchanting.

John thought. He contemplated the infinite variety of human sexuality, cab drivers and landladies, enchanting nostrils, the whole glorious gamut. "Yes. Yes, I think so."

"Hm." Sherlock tilted his head, his eyes hidden by the gleam of his safety goggles. They made him look even more Kafka-esque than usual, especially with the dressing-gown. "Let me finish with Lestrade's club murders, then we may proceed with our first trial. I assume you don't mind if I document the procedure?" 

John waved in a manner meant to convey "of course not," but probably looked more like panicked flailing.

Sherlock nodded, decisively. "Good, then. That's good. We may begin in approximately 90 minutes. You should shower. Thoroughly."

Oh. It was going to be like that, then. John heaved himself out of his chair, and went to take perhaps the most thorough shower of his life, to date, including that time he'd been through decontamination. The techs hadn't made him wash there quite like that.

*

John rolled over onto his back, panting. Sherlock was already sitting up, but he hadn't retrieved his notebook from the bedside table, yet. His pale chest heaved and his hair clung to his forehead in damp curls.

"That went very well, I think." John said.

"Hm. I would have to concur. We shall have to determine if the results are repeatable, of course." Sherlock reached for his notebook and pen. "Perhaps introduce some new variables..." his voice trailed off as Sherlock began to record the experience.

"Oh, of course." John smiled. "In the name of science."

**Author's Note:**

> My second Sherlock (BBC) fic. This was written in an epic, insomniac binge, in an attempt to cheer myself up. It mostly worked.


End file.
